


Every Scar has a Story

by halduronbrightwang



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Branding, Drabble, Interrogation, M/M, Mists of Pandaria, One Shot, Self-Mutilation, Series Spoilers, Short One Shot, Violence, like only a paragraph or two, teen romance (mentioned), theyre late teens in this maybe older and its hardly mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 14:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10026107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halduronbrightwang/pseuds/halduronbrightwang
Summary: Every scar has a story- the more interesting the scar, the more interesting the story behind it's origin.Aniryean was always a patriot to the Horde, so the story behind the mark upon his chest seems rather straightforward, but things are not always as they seem.





	

Living in Durotar, the heart of the Horde, was a huge change from a childhood in Silvermoon City, yet some things never changed. 

Other things did too quickly, too rashly, even for the most loyal to the Horde and the ever present war machine. Korkron guards were everywhere, and so many people left, fled even, their watchful eyes. Others were taken in for ‘questioning’, as one put it, and never came back. Siyegg said that the Warchieft had finally lost his mind, pitting the races under the bloody red banner against one another, breaking them apart, as rumors spread of a rebellion forming to the south and all Aniryean could do was hope his dear friend, Hartwaz, had gone there, rather than the iron fortress in the heart of Orgrimmar for that ‘questioning’ when he found his house empty and chickens scattered to the desert. Even as he was dragged by one of the Korkron, the elf thought of his family, not the possibly impending death that may wait for him. 

The orc threw him to the ground and commanded for him to walk. The heart of Orgrimmar was quiet, but yet not empty. Orcs walked with their heads down, not daring meeting the eye of guards or stood alongside them as goblins and other races not yet driven out by Garrosh’s inane warmongering, those who hadn’t left for greener pastures. 

Like the rumors circulating that the Blood Elves, his race no matter how much Aniryean considered himself a citizen of Orgrimmar, were planning on doing.

With a nasty kick, the Korkron guard slammed the warrior into the doorway of Garrosh’s fortress in the center of the city, narrowly missing the jagged spikes lining it. Still, his nose was probably broken from colliding with the metal and the elf spat the blood in his face as he was dragged before the man of the hour himself. Garrosh sneered atop his throne, Gorehowl lain across his lap as if ready for execution. 

“What is this filth you bring before me?” The warchief stood, towering above all in the room. His advisors, the ones put in place by Thrall long since replaced by yes men, the Emissary from Silvermoon long since fled back to the gleaming city, even the Blood Knight who’s name Aniryean didn’t remember, they were all gone. Just Korkron and the most vicious of them remained and even they seemed to wilt from their proud postures at the sight of him. 

“Another of those floppy eared traitors?”

“I am no traitor!” Aniryean snapped, blood dripping from his face spraying about. Garrosh’s sneer turned into a snarl and his weapon slammed down beside the elf; even as brave as he was, Aniryean couldn’t help but flinch. 

“Listen to me, elf,” His voice was low, but every word stern and unmoving like stone. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to the Horde’s leader. “The Horde doesn’t have room for traitors, and treason is to be met with death. So tell me, blood elf, are you loyal to the Horde or not?”

Aniryean was always loyal to the Horde, from the moment he crossed back over the dark portal to breath in the clean air of Azeroth, untainted by the clouds of fel magic that spewed across Outland, when he was met with the compassion of the orcs who despite his anger and lashing out sought to give him a home and family, a family he found and loved dearly despite the barriers and scorn of others who should have been there for him. Durotar was a home to him longer than Silvermoon had, so much so he barely remembered the streets paved with magic and embellished with gold. Orcs were his kin more than his own race who’d met him with distrust because of the actions of his parents, who’s faces were no more than a distant faded memory lost to time. 

His eyes locked with the Warchief who’s actions and his alone were tearing that all apart. If only there were a sword in his hand, he could act on the rage boiling in his veins, to slice open his throat and spill Garrosh’s blood across the floor. That was what Garrosh wanted, wasn’t it? To paint not only Pandaria, but the entire world red. Garrosh’s warmongering wasn’t just planting the horde’s red banner on every surface, every village, every encampment, but with the blood of the fallen. Even innocents. Innocents like the massacre in Stonetalon, Ashenvale, everywhere his war machine went, people died when they didn’t have to. There was no honor in it. 

A hand brutally slapped him across the face. “Answer your warchief, elf!” As soon as he was free from the chains around his wrists, Aniryean was going to claim the head of the Korkron who dared to strike him first. 

“I have always been loyal to the Horde.” Even as his chest heaved with anger and ragged breaths, Aniryean answered. He wasn’t the smartest, but he knew better than to act out in defiance. Ketar had taught him better. Some moments were meant for that anger, but he was treading on broken glass. Garrosh laughed, pacing about the room. 

“Is. That. So. You see, I heard you wanted to have my hide as what was it?” He turned to one of the guards, who saluted as soon as Garrosh spoke. 

“A rug, sir.” 

“A rug. That doesn’t sound like loyalty to me.” 

That Korkron looked familiar, Aniryean realized, and paled as it hit him. A few weeks ago a group of them were harassing Siyegg for how she clung to the old ways, the days Thrall was their warchief, and he’d attacked them and sent them scurrying back to Orgrimmar with their tails between their legs. His own words echoed as Aniryean realized his mistake. 

‘That’s right! Run on back to Orgrimmar and tell Hellscream I send my regards! I’ll have his hide as a new rug!’ 

“Words of anger, nothing else, Warchief.” Aniryean’s eyes fell to the ground, where he noticed there was dried blood. Obviously, he wasn’t the first one to be brought in and questioned like this; he wondered if his mothers were awaiting their own interrogations, if they were safe. Though much more skilled a warrior than he was, Ketar was old, getting frail, and hadn’t seen a real battle in years. These Korkron were young and prideful loyal to a fault. It wouldn’t take many of them to keep her down. Hellscream snorted, sitting back on his throne. Clearly he didn’t believe Aniryean in the least, because his next words were obviously a test of his actions. 

“Prove it. Prove your loyalty to the Horde.”

Did he expect him to beg? Plead for his life like a whimpering child? Maybe once Aniryean would have done so, but he knew better now. Least of all, he didn’t want his head spiked on the spires of Orgrimmar like an Alliance dog. Rising to his feet, Aniryean demanded his chains taken off, surprisingly, the Korkron agreed with a wave of Garrosh’s hand. His every movement was being judged so there was no room for error. One mistake and he’d likely be killed on the spot but the fiery haired elf was forming a plan. 

The braisers on the side of the room, if he got close enough, he could probably see if there were any guards outside and try to run… He approached it, but the plan to escape was quickly falling apart. Thoughts of his mothers came to mind; how if he screwed up it would come on them, not him. They could kill him, but from what he heard even if it were rumors, Siyegg and Ketar would likely be imprisoned or worse. 

Aniryean swallowed the knot in his throat and took off his shirt and his belt, both emblessened with the Orgrimmar sigil. The plate belt he tossed in the coals of the braiser and the shirt he wrapped around his hand. What he was planning, the new plan, was going to hurt, but not as much as any alternative that came to mind. 

“Is that your answer?” he hesitated a moment, eyes flicking between the impatient orcs and the braiser. The metal was quickly heating up, beginning to glow a dull red but it needed to be hotter. 

“I-I need only a moment, Warchief Hellscream.” Garrosh’s eyes narrowed, fear making the elf’s ragged ears pin back against his head like a scared animal. All he could do is hope that what he was about to do would impress the orc enough he would go free with only a few burns and a head still on his shoulders.

“I have better things to do than watch you burn your clothes.” 

Again Aniryean looked to the braiser. The belt was yellow now and that’d have to be hot enough. As much as he hated to do so, he grabbed it with his hand wrapped in the shirt and pressed the buckle shaped like the Horde’s logo to his chest, just to the left of where his heart should have been. The moments that followed were agonizing. Flesh and hair burned, sizzling under the heat of the buckle. It felt more like he’d been shot with liquid iron and his hand shook, only worsening it. Searing the Horde’s mark into his skin forever, smoke rose from the wisps of hair that got too close. Finally it was too much to bear and Aniryean dropped the buckle, his hand burnt as much as his chest was, the shirt blackened and full of holes, he fell to his knees and gasping for air. Tears, from the pain, fell to the floor. A pair of boots entered his vision, the rest of the form obscured by his hair but Aniryean didn’t have to be a genius to know who it was, especially as he was yanked up by one of the many braids in his mane of hair to meet Garrosh’s eyes. His vision was too blurry to make out the man’s expression and soon he’d pass out, that much Aniryean was sure, but Garrosh was unimpressed, or at least he seemed so.

“Get him out of here.”

So that was it then, his last moments were going to be full of agony.

“You’ve proven your loyalty to the Horde, for now. Know this, elf, the eyes of Hellscream are upon you.” 

Just like that he was tossed out into the dirt, but didn’t have the strength to get up again, not for some time, instead laying in the dirt and panting. All the fear, all the anxiety, rushed out of his body but the pain and anger still remained. Forgetting the burns in his hand for the pain was so much less than his scorched chest, Aniryean tried to get up and screamed out in agony, collapsing into a heap again for only a few minutes. If he laid there too long he’d be baked in the sun, and quite frankly, he’d seen enough of the world for a long time. All he wanted was to go home, to hide in a dark corner of Azeroth and not come out until he could with axe in hand and a taste for blood. 

His words back there, in what used to be a war room, not Hellscream’s sick torture chamber of his own citizens, they were true. He was always loyal to the Horde, and always would be. Aniryean would sooner cave in Lor’themar Theron’s head than give up his home in Durotar to anyone, not that the Regent had anything to do with it. When he finally rose to his feet he slowly made his way out of Orgrimmar, ignoring the whispers of the few in the valley who wondered aloud if the warchief did it to him, or if Aniryean did himself. With slow, painfully slow steps, he was going to leave this blasted city. 

Aniryean had somewhere in mind, but he was not going home. No, as much as he wanted his mothers’ kind embrace, Siyegg’s gentle words and soothing healing, Ketar’s fury beside his own, there was somewhere he had to go. 

Aniryean was always loyal to the Horde, but he never said he was loyal to Hellscream. He was going to find out if this rebellion was true, and if it was, he’d see personally Garrosh’s head on a pike if it was the last thing he did. 

-

Hartwaz pressed his head to Aniryean’s, his hand holding a bandage to the wound tightly despite Aniryean’s hiss of pain. The burn ointment was too cold, the wound too deep for it to do much of anything but fend off infection. The troll shook his head a bit, his other hand resting on the warrior’s cheek as his warpaint ran with tears. 

“Anir, mon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Aniryean wrapped his arms around him, threading his fingers through the troll’s hair with his hand that wasn’t wrapped in a thick glove of gauze bandages. The mage worried for him, overseeing him when the Darkspear found him collapsed in the desert with those burns and cuts from thorns of trampled cacti.

“Hartwaz, it’s okay…”

“No, no it ain’t, look what they did to you. Your nose-” Aniryean stopped him, managing to press a quick kiss to the troll’s own nose to silence him. He told the man that everything would be alright, his nose would heal even if the bones crunched when he smiled at seeing his boyfriend safe and sound with the others who fled to Sen’jin Village to organize the rebellion, his chest would probably scar but that was okay. 

“At least I won't need a tattoo, right?” 

Hartwaz was stunned, carefully maneuvering his massive tusks so he didn’t accidentally gore the blood elf in his lap. That was the last thing Aniryean needed right now, a hole in the head from an oversized tooth. He rested his head on top of the elf’s, stroking his shoulder as Aniryean shook, curling himself against Hartwaz’s warm skin and it seemed as though the redhead was falling asleep from how he mumbled, asking about his mothers, though it could have been he was passing out again.

“They’ll be fine mon, they’ll be here when you wake up. Get some rest now, Hartwaz be taking good care of ya 'till moms get here.”


End file.
